what I ate and drank at the
doctor's supper-table; I do. Do you think he would listen to me? Not he.
You try him next; you're a professional man, and he must listen to you.
Be a good fellow, doctor, and give me a certificate of indigestion; I'll
show you my tongue with pleasure."

"The sight of your face is quite enough," said Mr. Hawbury. "I certify,
on the spot, that you never had such a thing as an indigestion in your
life. Let's hear about the dream, and see what we can make of it, if you
have no objection, that is to say."

Allan pointed at Midwinter with his fork.

"Apply to my friend, there," he said; "he has got a much better account
of it than I can give you. If you'll believe me, he took it all down in
writing from my own lips; and he made me sign it at the end, as if it
was my 'last dying speech and confession' before I went to the gallows.
Out with it, old boy--I saw you put it in your pocket-book--out with
it!"

"Are you really in earnest?" asked Midwinter, producing his pocketbook
with a reluctance which was almost offensive under the circumstances,
for it implied distrust of the doctor in the doctor's own house.

Mr. Hawbury's color rose. "Pray don't show it to me, if you feel the
least unwillingness," he said, with the elaborate politeness of an
offended man.

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried Allan. "Throw it over here!"

Instead of complying with that characteristic request, Midwinter took
the paper from the pocket-book, and, leaving his place, approached Mr.
Hawbury. "I beg your pardon," he said, as he offered the doctor the
manuscript with his own hand. His eyes dropped to the ground, and his
face darkened, while he made the apology. "A secret, sullen fellow,"
thought the doctor, thanking him with formal civility; "his friend is
worth ten thousand of him." Midwinter went back to the window, and sat
down again in silence, with the old impenetrable resignation which had
once puzzled Mr. Brock.

"Read that, doctor," said Allan, as Mr. Hawbury opened the written
paper. "It's not told in my roundabout way; but there's nothing added
to it, and nothing taken away. It's exactly what I dreamed, and exactly
what I should have written myself, if I had thought the thing worth
putting down on paper, and if I had had the knack of writing--which,"
concluded Allan, composedly stirring his coffee, "I haven't, except it's
letters; and I rattle _them_ off in no time."

Mr. Hawbury spread the manuscript before him